


you've got troubles, I've got 'em too

by ladanse



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Anxiety, Drug Use, Gen, Swawesome Santa 2016, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladanse/pseuds/ladanse
Summary: Shitty and Jack, freshman year; or, how two lonely assholes somehow found a home in each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sohma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sohma/gifts).



> for the prompt:  
> shitty's my favorite character, so i'd love a fic centered on him! i'm a big multishipper, though, so i'm okay with a lot of ships--i tend to stick with the more popular/"obvious" ones (like nursydex, hansom, zimbits, lardo/shitty, chowder/farmer, etc.) but i like a lot of the others too (like holster/bitty, shitty/jack, and so many more) if that's more up your alley!  
> ((genfic is also a-okay, i'm just putting shitty because he's my favorite))
> 
>  
> 
> ~hope you like it! sorry for the angst lol but I couldn't help myself~

 

  
"What the shitsticks," Shitty thinks to himself, pleasantly, when he arrives for the tour of the hockey frat house to find _Jack Fucking Zimmermann_ standing there, presumably also for the tour, slightly apart from the other frogs, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He looks like he doesn't want to be here, and honestly, Shitty can understand why; everyone who plays has heard the news that Zimmermann pulled out of the draft to coach peewee and then play for Samwell. What no one knows is _why_.

 

The other frogs are a couple seconds from swarming him - their glances are growing longer and bolder, and Zimmermann is drawing further and further into himself, as though he sees it coming. Shitty is reminded uncomfortably of his graduation party, with relatives from both his mom and dad's side circling him all night, ready to pop the "So, no Harvard?" question. Before he can think too hard about it, Shitty walks forward, bumps Zimmermann companionably with his shoulder, and says, "Hey, I'm Shitty."

 

"What?" says Zimmermann, all blue sloe-eyed Canadian confusion, and his shoulders have relaxed out of sheer surprise.

 

"Shitty," he repeats. "Nickname. Long story."

 

Zimmermann seems to accept this. "I'm Jack," he says, a cute little flush on his cheeks, and Shitty realizes that he's going to be adopting him. Before he says something ridiculous like, "I know who you are," and makes Zimmermann - Jack - uncomfortable, Shitty forces himself to fall back on familiar patterns.

 

"Just Jack?" he says. "Brah. Do you actually play hockey?"

 

Jack gives him a look that says, _are you actually asking me this_ , and nods. "I do."

 

"Then what's your _name_? Jay-Z? Zimmboni? Zimms?"

 

Jack physically flinches, at that last one, and Shitty backtracks. "We should call you Jay-Z," he says, seriously.

 

Jack frowns, collecting himself. "Isn't that like an actor?"

 

Shitty blinks, and then blinks again. "No," he says. "Apparently we have work to do."

 

"We?" says Jack, bright and astonished, and Shitty's heart breaks a little.

 

"Yes," he says. "Later."

 

"Right," says Jack, "later," and wrenches his gaze away as the captain comes out to give his rousing little speech about Samwell 2012.

 

*

 

  
_Later_ is that night, when Shitty makes his way through most of a six-pack and then digs through the throng of people in the Haus living room to find Jack sitting in the stairwell, sipping what seems to be apple juice, watching people laugh and talk from somewhere very far away. Shitty sits down next to him, bumps him again (though with less coordination; he's a little drunk) and says, "Yo, Jay-Z."

 

"Hi, Shitty," says Jack. He seems almost amused.

 

"Want one?" says Shitty, holding up the six-pack, and Jack's amusement fades quickly.

 

"I don't drink," he says. There's a story there. Shitty doesn't push.

 

"What do you think of Samwell?" he asks, instead.

 

Jack answers like he's conducting an interview: organized, efficient, innocuous. "It's nice here," he says. "The first day was great, and the weather's not too bad - "

 

"No, I mean," says Shitty, and he's had more beers than he thought, "Samwell. It's not the League."

 

Jack tenses, and Shitty regrets everything. He doesn't think Jack will respond, but he says, firmly. "It's not. And sometimes, that can be a good thing."

 

Shitty recognizes the influence of a therapist when he hears it. He forces himself to say, "It's not Harvard, either. I know what you mean."

 

"You got into Harvard?" says Jack, his eyes reappraising.

 

Shitty snorts. "My mom's name got me into Harvard, but yes."

 

"Oh," says Jack. Then, "I know what you mean."

 

Shitty feels his lips quirk up at the corners, drains half his bottle in one go, and then, wiping his mouth, says, "Come on. We should immortalize the bylaws on a wall somewhere."

 

Jack's laugh is startled and genuine, and Shitty counts it as a win.

 

*

 

Shitty is high.

 

This is a fairly common state for him. He's not concerned about it. Well. He's not concerned about much anything, really, right now.

 

Jack could use this, he muses. Jack is worried about too many things. Maybe if Jack got high he could worry about...less things.

 

It seems like a good idea to walk affably down the street to Jack's dorm, make his way down the hall, and slip into Jack's room. The bed is soft. Shitty is wearing nothing but boxers, but those are starting to get annoying, so he takes them off, slides into Jack's bed, and cuddles into something muscled and warm.

 

"What," says Jack. His shoulders are stiff. Scratch that - his entire body is stiff, and Shitty is mildly annoyed.

 

"Relax," he says, and snuggles closer.

 

"You're high," says Jack, sniffing. Shitty nods. "You're - are you even - you're not wearing pants!" After some consideration, Shitty nods again. Jack swallows and opens his mouth. "Shitty," he says, his voice very steady. "Can you please put on some clothing."

 

"No," says Shitty, and reaches out, shutting Jack's computer. "You need to relax. You study too much."

 

"Shitty," says Jack. "Pants."

 

"Right," says Shitty, and snuggles closer.

 

"Also," says Jack. "Boundaries."

 

"Don't have any," replies Shitty, easily. "Did you know my grandparents hate my mustache?"

 

"Well," says Jack. "It does look a little - "

 

"It's not a pedostache!" says Shitty, indignant. "It's a pornstache. That's what I told them."

 

"And?"

 

"And they didn't like it anyway," Shitty whines. "They're rude." He looks up at Jack, blinking for a minute. "They wouldn't like your hair, either."

 

"My hair?" says Jack, his hand going up to push it back.

 

"No, don't." Shitty reaches up to stop him, brings his hand back down to his leg, and gives it a pat. "Your hair is nice. It's fluffy."

 

"Fluffy."

 

"Yes," says Shitty, sitting up ("Shitty!" says Jack, averting his eyes) and running his fingers through it. Jack tenses, but doesn't push him away, so he keeps doing it, and eventually, Jack does relax back into his bedframe.

 

("Thanks," he says, later, half-asleep. Shitty's mostly come down by now, and he nods easily. "No problem, brah.")

 

*

 

"I'm bisexual," says Jack. His fists are clenching and releasing, like he's trying not to lose it. "Also, I have an anxiety disorder."

 

Shitty gives him an even glance from where he lies, sprawled across Jack's bedspread. It's become a habit; neither of them mind very much. He smiles slightly, and says, "I love you no matter what, brah," and Jack relaxes, just a little. Shitty can't imagine the pressure Jack's been facing to keep himself hidden - hockey is not a forgiving sport in terms of sexuality or mental health, and - well. He's heard Jack talk about Kent Parson, trip over the name "Kenny" and switch to "Parse" instead, and Shitty doesn't call him Zimms, ever - he'd suspected, at least, and is a little blindsided with the trust Jack's giving him.

 

It's true, though. Shitty loves Jack like family; he's filled a space Shitty didn't realized had been sitting empty next to him his whole life. There's nothing about them that's the same, except for the important things.

 

*

 

The news breaks.

 

Shitty is up studying for finals when his phone pings (yes, he has Jack on Google alerts; they've both been waiting for this) and, knowing that Jack won't be up for another hour for practice, goes down to Annie's and gets Jack coffee and a maple bar. He ambushes Jack in his dorm, offers him the coffee through his bleary-eyed blinking, and lets him have a half-hour of peace before he has to face the world.

 

(If there's a panic attack in there, no one needs to know. Shitty rubs his back through it, speaks softly, lets Jack shake, and tells him, fiercely, that he is not alone, that they will get through this together.)

 

The headlines assault them from every angle as they keep their heads down, walk to the rink. _Zimmermann 2.0 a Druggie?_ one asks. _Overdose Solves Draft Mystery!_ proclaims another.

 

When they get there, the coaches pull Zimmermann away to talk to him in private; he just looks quietly resigned, and Shitty throws his gear into the wall. Then, he glares each of the other team members into treating Jack respectfully - it's not even that necessary, everyone supports Jack despite his standoffishness - but some of the other frogs look like they have questions, and Shitty is _not_ having it. By the time Jack gets back, Shitty has composed himself enough to get dressed and skate out onto the ice at Jack's shoulder, body itching for a fight and ready to take it out on the puck.

 

It's not their best practice, but it's their most synchronized one - they turn their nervous energy into sharp awareness and play countless, effortless assists on each other's goals. On a water break, Shitty hears the coaches talking about putting them on the same line.

 

"Jack!" he yells, and Jack looks up from the other side of the rink. "You and me," he shouts. "Starting line."

 

Jack must hear him, because he raises a hand and yells something back. Shitty can't hear him, but he can see Jack's little smile even from this far away. He grins to himself, and chalks it up as another win.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was so fun to write :)
> 
> I take prompts on tumblr - come into my ask! bollywood-and-phoenix-feather.tumblr.com


End file.
